


whatever was before is irrelevant now

by Wishmaker



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2015, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:11:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4969378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishmaker/pseuds/Wishmaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames thought investigative journalism was his passion until he felt actual passion - for his new, promising career in dreamshare and his new, even more promising co-worker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whatever was before is irrelevant now

**Author's Note:**

> Wheep! This is my first work in the fandom and since it's for the Inception Reverse Big Bang, I've been working on it the whole summer ;o; [beili](http://beili.livejournal.com) from livejournal made some absolutely amazing art (it's now linked under related works, yay!) that inspired this whole thing please go shower her with all the love ;o;  
> Also, nothing here would work without the amazing [jikeidannin](http://http://jikeidannin.livejournal.com) also from livejournal taking the time to beta this ;o; Anything that doesn't work is completely my fault!  
> Anyway, I hope you'll like this and please leave a comment or whatnot to tell me about it! ;u;

Investigative journalism was the best worst decision of Eames’ life. And that wasn’t because of all the _exciting people_ he got to meet or the fact that journalism was his passion (he thought it was, but he was wrong – you don’t know true passion until after you’ve felt it, after all). It was because on an unfortunate fortunate accident he met Arthur, whose last name he didn’t even know.

 

It began with coffee. He didn’t even drink coffee, but he knocked over someone else’s cup at a meeting when Jimmy, their editor, informed him that he was to do an article on _dreamshare_. As in the sort of mysterious, definitely suspicious and barely legal profession that was slowly turning from military to private. It sounded exciting, yes, and even though he had no idea on how to actually get a scoop, he was definitely up for it. This was his chance to go big or go home.

 

Only three weeks later it continued with tea, at a properly fancy café in Paris. He was trying to get on a job with Dominic Cobb and Arthur. The former was some sort of a military rogue and the latter a wild card, the Robin to Cobb’s Batman. Apparently these were the people to go to if you wanted to be actually, properly included in the scene. Eames was privileged to have this opportunity, and he was going to make the most out of it. He even wore a suit, sort of.

 

At the café he didn’t get to talk to either of these two, but instead Mallorie Miles, who was some kind of a scout, if he had understood it right. She was frightening in her own right, sceptic gaze but trusting words, a paradox only truly possible in a dream.

 

“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Eames,” she began soon enough, pronouncing the words with an even stronger French accent than she actually needed. She had a curly hair and lovely eyes, wide and narrow at the same time.

 

“I’m very good at what I do, I can assure you,” Eames said pleasantly, smiling convincingly as he sat on the edge of the chair, talking sweetly to the woman who just might be his boss soon. Or at least that was what she would think; in reality his loyalty was already compromised.

 

“Is that not what they all say?” she asked him. Her words said sceptic but her tone was telling another story. She was sold; she would do it for him. She would do anything for him, if he only asked.

 

He grinned, two parts flirting and one part reckless, a man with nothing to lose. That was the role he wanted to play, the guy he wanted to be in these people’s eyes. Mr. Eames, the man with everything to gain. “The difference is that I can actually own up, love.”

 

She looked at him with a thin-lipped Moulin Rouge smile and nodded, filled with mirth and faux-happiness. She was beautiful, Eames supposed, but deadly all the same. Maybe that was true for all of these people, in which case he should definitely watch out for himself. Who could you trust amidst people who just might be as dishonest as yourself?

 

“I think you’re just fine for the job we have planned, _mon chéri_. It’s quite simple, only one level, a simple forge.” He wanted to comment that he could handle harder jobs just fine as well, but that would have meant walking on the kind of ice he didn’t really have.

 

“I appreciate the opportunity,” he said instead. Mal seemed to relax a fraction, smiling a little more believably.

 

*

 

“Oh, I’ll show you something about Arthur,” Mal told him with a smirk after she had had a few drinks on her, fishing her cell phone from her pocket and suddenly losing all of her previous professionalism in one short sentence. Eames leaned in closer to take a look, and saw what she meant; she had a picture where ‘Arthur’ was wearing a yellow corset that emphasised her curves most wonderfully. She seemed far less malicious than Mal, though you couldn’t see her face. The curves were nice, though, and the only thing he didn’t exactly fancy was the shadow of a man on the background. It ruined the mood, so to say.

 

“Are they together?” Eames asked Mal, because how could he do anything but that? With a body like that, the face was bound to own up, and Eames wouldn’t mind doing a private interview with Arthur. “Ms. Arthur and the guy, I mean?” he elaborated at the outlandish look she gave him. Was this too private, to ask about the relationships of his co-criminals?

 

Eames should have seen the light bulb go on over her head, and he would have if he was actually _good at what he did_ like he claimed to be – but in reality he was blissfully oblivious. She smiled and said, “Oh, rumour has it Ms. Arthur only wears pretty corsets for Mr. Cobb, if you catch my drift?”

 

He nodded, sort of understanding. It couldn’t be helped, perhaps – and besides, he was here on a job no matter how much he had wished for a pleasure cruise. If Arthur was open to trying new things, however…

 

 _Arthur_ , he thought privately. Maybe working with someone’s own name was too risky for such a dangerous business. He too might need a new identity, if he intended to stay.

 

*

 

When he arrived at the warehouse in Downtown Seattle, a day later than Mal – they had wanted him to change flights in Copenhagen _and_ Amsterdam _and_ Mexico City - the huge room was inhabited by only one man, who seemed eerily familiar for no apparent reason.

 

“Glad you joined us on the job, Mr. Eames,” the man offered as a greeting. He was wearing a suit, but it wasn’t one of those ten thousand pound Armani suits Eames had expected to see. It was just a suit, it didn’t fit him to the tee, it wasn’t spectacular in any way. He accessorised it with a friendly smile and no secrets, and this made him look so young, so vulnerable. From his accent, Eames supposed he had lived his whole life in the States and could hardly even place London on a map. _Americans_.

 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Eames told him pleasantly, wanting to make a good first impression and some extra points for being pleasant, “Are you our extractor?”

 

“No,” the man replied, shaking his head, “Mr. Cobb is our extractor, Mal is the architect, and I’m the point man. Arthur, nice to meet you.”

 

Eames was an actor. Or he wasn’t; he was a journalist, but the point was that he could act when the situation called for it. This one obviously did, so he merely shook Arthur’s hand and returned the smile. “Most wonderful,” he replied.

 

_Dreamshare was nothing like I thought. It’s made to be such a glamorous profession, hardly work at all. To us, it sounds like dreaming is all you do, and that it’s as easy as breathing – it’s actually diligent work, with research and long hours. The actual dreaming is only a fraction. When I arrived in Seattle, I was quickly explained the basics – dreams are not in any way like reality, after all – but after that, it was up to me to understand the underlying realities._

_It’s also not fitting for everyone. It takes a special kind of imagination to be able to dream, and I was sadly afraid not everyone in my team had it in them._

 

Cobb felt like he was almost too proper to be military gone rogue, but maybe he was one of those people who did anything for the things that really mattered. Regardless, his huge stature surprised Eames the first time they met – he was charismatic and definitely fit for being the mastermind behind huge operations. At the same time, Eames was slightly worried about his mental state.

 

Arthur, like Mal, was full of contradictions. He was awfully diligent, almost to the point of being dreadful company, but at the same time he was deeply passionate about what he did. He took all of Cobb and Mal’s ideas and made them work, but at the same time seemed to completely lack imagination of his own. He was all too happy to talk to Eames about the Penrose steps, but didn’t allow himself a free moment otherwise. He was loyal to Cobb but a best friend to Mal. Eames didn’t understand any of it, and when he tried to put it into words for his article, he never managed to properly describe how wonderfully capable Arthur was, regardless of his glaring faults.

 

*

 

“How did you end up with such a profession?” Eames asked Arthur, the words coming out in a sigh because he was thinking about the unrealistic workload while talking.

 

Arthur didn’t reply right away, eyeing him like trying to judge his trustworthiness. In the end, he just muttered, “I don’t know. I suppose some things in life just… happen.”

 

“Awfully imaginative of you.”

 

“I think even you might understand that it’s not exactly the kind of information I can share with you.”

 

“Why not? I’m good at keeping secrets, _Arthur_.” He leaned towards Arthur on the last word, grinning what he believed to be his _trust me_ grin.

 

“Maybe one day you’ll get the chance to prove it,” Arthur muttered, and Eames wasn’t really sure if they were even talking about the same subject anymore.

 

*

 

Arthur knew about the picture. He knew about it not only because he was in it, but he also knew that Eames knew. He _knew_. It wasn’t clear why – Eames was a good actor, he knew he was, and it wasn’t like he would have ever told Arthur if he had a choice.

 

Eames’ curiosity, however, was definitely on the level of being a character fault, so he did end up questioning Arthur. This took place after a long day of forging and gathering intel, after Arthur had sat at a computer for so many hours Eames hadn’t actually done the math.

 

He brought Arthur a cup of coffee as a peace offering – it was black because he hadn’t paid any attention to Arthur’s coffee order and because Arthur looked like he needed something strong – and sat at the edge of his desk.

 

“What do you want?” Arthur asked, not raising his head to look away from the screen, not really even moving. His voice was raspy like always; Eames was almost starting to believe that it was permanently that way, even though it didn’t seem fitting on Arthur’s young face. Disuse or cigarettes? Tiredness?

 

“Figured I’d chat you up,” he replied with an easy smile, “Since everyone else here has seemingly understood the concept of rest and work hours and all that.”

 

“Right,” Arthur replied in the middle of the last word like he didn’t really listen, not exactly believing him. He moved the cup a bit closer to his arm while saying it, so Eames counted it as a personal victory regardless.

 

Eames hummed, “Are you making any progress?” It was probably the easiest way to get on Arthur’s good side – talk to him about work like it was the most important thing in the world.

 

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, quiet and less hostile than before. He touched the rim of the cup like he wanted to drink it right now and leave, regardless of the burn and the work he still had to finish. “But you aren’t really here to talk about work, so shoot me.”

 

“I wanted to ask you about the picture,” Eames sighed in admittance.

 

Arthur groaned. “I will ruin your life—“

 

“Please don’t.” It was the closest to sincere he got during the conversation, the only thing he could swear he was honest about.

 

“You’re nowhere near the first forger Mal has lured in with her tricks.” He sighed, deep and almost apologetic, not quite because he wasn’t that person, he wasn’t ready to take full responsibility for other people’s mistakes. Eames understood here that Mal had actually played him – and he was supposed to be the one who could read people. “Cobb and her, they have a certain reputation. They’re not necessarily easy to work with. One time—”

 

Arthur was being honest, Eames realised belatedly, drifting away from the conversation. Arthur was always honest but he didn’t usually grace people with intel quite like this. Here was Eames, getting yet another special, lucky strike, one he deserved even less than the previous ones.

 

He was actually planning on going to his office and writing a story about this. About their life, about Mal and Dom and _Arthur_ , and it would be good because of his dedication to the job and the inside knowledge that was so difficult to get and he’d return to his life and leave these people to tend to their own.

 

He left before Arthur had even started drinking his coffee. Whether he had suddenly remembered an errand that had to be taken care of at one AM or just left without a word, he couldn’t remember. He doubted it even mattered, to be honest.

 

In a few weeks, he would understand that this night had been his golden opportunity; the attraction was mutual, or at least it had been. Once upon a dream within a dream.

 

*

 

“I need you to rework this, _mon chou_. It’s all too accurate. You need to give me a bit more…” she waved her hand in the air dismissively and extravagantly all the while, “—artistic license.”

  
Mal was leaning against Arthur’s self-issued desk, hands gripping the edge and a smile playing on her lips. Arthur, on the other hand, rolled his eyes and squinted at the papers in front of him. “If I gave you all the artistic license you wanted, the dream would be nothing but a blank space.”

 

“You have grown dreadfully boring lately,” she sighed, shaking her head, “Please don’t tell me Dom is overworking you, my dearest.”

 

“Wait, are you hinting that Arthur has not in fact always been… well, Arthur?” Eames asked, amused by the idea.

 

“Oh, he was much more joyful in university, Mr. Eames! I wish you had met him back then, he studied architec—“

 

“I was going to change my major,” Arthur grumbled, but it was only a bit mean and mostly in good spirit. “And if you share with Eames any gruesome details, I’ll tell Cobb about _Casablanca_.”

 

Mal didn’t seem phased, but she rose regardless, “Ah, in that case I’m afraid my lips are sealed, Mr. Eames. But trust me when I say this… you would have _loved_ to be there.” She winked at Eames and left Arthur to work.

 

Eames, on the other hand, was left to wonder how much about these people was magnificent lore and how much was true.

 

“Don’t listen to her,” Arthur commented, picking up the paper Mal had been pointing at and turning it around distantly. “She just loves to gossip; we think she might have lived for the parties of Louis XIV of France, in another life.”

 

“Charming,” Eames murmured, wondering.

 

*

  
The job was executed magnificently, without a hitch whatsoever. After all that planning, it was almost anticlimactic that everything would go according to plan like it did. Mal and Cobb performed their parts well, but Arthur performed his spectacularly. He was like a burning comet of competence and Arthurian skill, and Eames was fully prepared to burn with him, if so need be.

 

Arthur didn’t flirt with him anymore, though. On the last few days, Arthur would hardly even look at him, and Eames had no idea where he had gone off the path on his conquest.

 

After a job, it was customary that they all go their separate ways, flying to different places and having no contact with each other for a few weeks. Cobb had told him this, and Arthur had interrupted the story by piping up with _don’t lie to him so casually, Dom, you call me every time._ Eames couldn’t explain the stab in his gut with anything but how he wanted someone to care about him enough to call.

 

Arthur was in charge of the money, being the point. They all had their bank accounts set up (by Arthur) under aliases, again in different countries, and he had promised they’d have their shares within the next 48 hours, from different aliases and all that. _Paranoid to a fault_ would make a fine subheading for his article, Eames thought, not that he would be able to keep his titles and ingress without their editor cruelly tearing them apart. Then again, it would have suggested that there was something off with the way Arthur worked, which was nowhere near the truth. As long as Arthur could keep them out of jail, Eames would be fine with his deep-ingrained paranoia.

 

“You’re a journalist,” Arthur said suddenly, watching the standstill carousel. It wasn’t an accusation – Eames believed, but he couldn’t be sure, because these people were all liars – it couldn’t be because they were just standing there at the baggage claim, and Arthur was looking at Eames from the corner of his eye. He was judging Eames’ character and he couldn’t be bothered to be anything but painfully clear about it. Maybe he didn’t know how to be anything else, with his personality. It came out like one of those observations that had been in his mind for a long time now, just waiting to come out while it still could.

 

“Yes,” he replied, with the truth because this was _Arthur_ , because Arthur received this much honesty in return for his own, “How—“

 

Arthur motioned at himself, sighing, “I’m a point man.” He seemed upset even under all the false pretences he now held, the tight arms and closed-off expression. Arthur tried so hard not to lose his temper, Eames believed, that he couldn’t even hint at having feelings. And the conveyor belt started moving. “Hope you got a good scoop, seeing how you’re _never_ working in dreamshare again,” he gritted out, leaving Eames to stand there, feeling like his work was a mistake and his life just a sob story.

 

It might have been chance or it might have been Arthur – that would be fitting to describe his whole life from here on – but his luggage never made it there.

 

*

 

There was money to comfort himself with – since Mal had once mentioned that this was a low-paying job, he would like to see the better paying ones because this was the most money he had ever had – but it didn’t quite compare to the sheer thrill of everything that had transpired during the previous month. How could real life compare, especially since being awake was so dull and dreams no longer came naturally?

 

He returned to his apartment just outside Birmingham, to his life just across the Atlantic, and he wondered. Was work in dreamshare really as glorious as that first job had been? He had previously considered his life quite good, with a solid income and an interesting job and all that, but now it just felt like a poor forge of dreaming. What were Arthur, Cobb and Mal doing right now? Did they lay low for a while, satisfied with spending all their money while waiting for the next job to show up? Did Arthur feel as meaningless as he did, right now?

 

Maybe it would have been a good idea, he thought while spinning lazily in his chair, to ask these things while he still had the chance. For the article, of course, not for the sake of sating his curiosity.

 

Besides, he had been a bloody good forger.

 

*

 

Finding proper – if that was the right term to describe it, anyway – work in dreamshare was surprisingly difficult after his none-too-smooth beginning. Obviously the criminal collective didn’t like rats or undercover journalists, but how, _how in the world_ could the conmen with non-existent English in Niger possibly know that Eames wasn’t to be trusted after just a brief conversation?

 

After three months of asking and not being accepted to work with anyone, four new identities and countless useless trips across the world, Eames finally had a name; Arthur. Apparently he was the one responsible for single-handedly filling the ever-growing community with rumours, each more appalling than the previous, more extravagant and farther from the truth. The only thing they had in common was that Eames had done a more or less stupid and definitely reckless thing during their first and only job together and Arthur was now cashing in favours on six continents by preventing anyone from hiring him ever again.

 

 

It was a bit excessive, Eames reasoned, sitting in a café in Barcelona on a hot day and a very small street, hoping to be free of the masses of tourists after three different women had ‘asked him for directions’, so to say. It was especially a little too much considering Arthur _could_ have just told people about the article and let them make their own stupid decisions after that.

 

Then again, what kind of a man would Eames be if he couldn’t appreciate the conviction with which Arthur had set out to ruin his career before it even properly began?

 

Not to mention his awful competence was one of Arthur’s clearest charms. It was the bright light in his character, the one thing that really set him apart from everyone else in Eames’ mind.

 

Yes, he decided in the humid heat and the smell of ground coffee, he would bed Arthur, eventually. First he’d just have to atone for his mistakes by becoming a name in the business.

 

*

 

Of course, it wasn’t Arthur who hired him on the job, three years later. Arthur could surely hold a grudge to the end of his days, if he was truly hurt. Eames was good, though, and when Cobb contacted him about a job, it didn’t actually take that much to get him to agree.

 

It went something like this:

 

_“You’ve reached Eames. This isn’t an answering machine, unless I owe yo—“_

_“Eames. It’s Dominick Cobb. I have a job you might be interested in; Tunisia in two weeks. If you’re not—“_

_“What makes you believe I would be interested? I have my own contacts, after all.”_

_“It’s a well-paying job, of course, and I’m known for only hiring people who are capable. I heard about what happened in Winterthur.”_

_“I performed gracefully, considering the extractor was shite. And by people who are capable, you mean—“_

_“Who do you think I mean?”_

 

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur said coolly. It was much like how they first met, except that Arthur was vastly different from how Eames remembered him – more refined, less happy. He also didn’t look like he would appreciate Eames telling him how he was absolutely gorgeous. It was even more noticeable because he wore one of those ten thousand pound three-piece suits this time, and it fit him so well that Eames wanted to whimper, among other things. He couldn’t recognise the brand but it was probably more than the pay of one job, no matter how good Arthur was.

 

“Arthur,” he acknowledged back. It was quite obvious it hadn’t been Arthur who had wanted him on the job, no. He had probably hissed at Cobb and asked him to take any other forger instead – either that or Eames thought all too highly of himself, which wouldn’t be the first time. “How are you, darling?”

 

The Arthur with whom he had worked with years ago would have blinked, showing obvious surprise. He would have opened his mouth without saying anything and maybe even blushed, only a bit. Eames would have laughed in a not-entirely-rude way and they would have continued like normal, only to revert to the same situation a few hours later. Eames knew this because he had studied Arthur and also because he had thought back to this playful banter so many times – so many _nights_ – since.

 

This Arthur, apparently hardened by his line of work, only frowned and ignored the question. “Get to work, Mr. Eames.” He was gorgeous, and so Eames wasted a few seconds admiring this.

 

“Oh, but I thought that was what we were doing?” He grinned at Arthur, in case he could still get the response he was looking for. He also made a mental bet with himself – he would bed Arthur before leaving Sousse. After that, he would get Arthur’s number and call him at the most obscene times in the most extravagant places and perhaps even make a repeated arrangement with him.

 

While Eames planned on, it seemed that Arthur had realised that he wasn’t worth a response, because he scoffed, dropping a folder on the desk that was apparently Eames’ now. He had never had a desk before. “You showed up late, so I want you to learn this by heart – by tomorrow.”

 

“Oh, but it’s so excessive...” Eames complained, going through the pages (there were over forty; Arthur must have an actual fetish for doing proper research). “Couldn’t you summarise it for me, darling? Or maybe go through them with me?” He might be able to manage this if he could listen to Arthur read it all for him, even in his harsh, mean tones. (it was Times New Roman, 10 point. Somehow it looked almost crammed in the pages, or maybe Eames was just too tired)

 

“No,” Arthur informed him, almost smirking, “But if you impress me tomorrow, I might be willing to talk to you about it.” A lesser man may have emphasised this with a wink, but Arthur didn’t even look back when he left the warehouse.

 

Eames wanted to have friends, just so that he could tell someone in that moment that a man whose last name he didn’t know was going to be the death of him. (some of it was written in code, one Eames hadn’t come across during his previous jobs so it had to be Arthur’s own making)

 

“Oh, you will be impressed all right,” he muttered a little scathingly to the empty room. (he couldn’t find the key, so maybe Arthur didn’t even want to be impressed)

 

The next morning, Arthur didn’t even bother with pleasantries. He wore a different suit, ashen in colour, accompanied by a red tie. In his hands he cradled a take-away coffee cup with some scribbles on the side. Honestly, Eames felt like his eyes wouldn’t focus properly anymore after all the reading he had done.

 

“Find it interesting?” Arthur asked pseudo-pleasantly, nodding at the papers scattered everywhere.

 

“What’s not to find interesting about…” He rustled the papers a bit, mostly to wake himself up, “A leader of the Tunisian mafia? I pride myself in my connections to the Italian mafia, and I didn’t even know that much of the African equivalents.”

 

Arthur nodded, approvingly, “Marcello was born in Tunis. I think these people are probably trying to take after him, more or less. Do you think you can manage the forge?”

 

The forge was also known as the mark’s already dead brother. Named Karim, he was the only person the mark had ever really trusted, so it was the best bet they had. Of course, it was also a bit of a stretch since he didn’t have a live model to mimic, but he wasn’t one of the best because he lacked imagination. “Of course I can. Have you forgotten just how _good_ I am, darling?”

 

Arthur scoffed, setting his empty cup on Eames’ desk with a rebellious thud. “I’ve worked with you _once_ , years ago, and back then you were a rookie and a rat. So I do think I have every reason to doubt your talent now.”

 

“Then I’ll just have to prove you wrong, won’t I?”

 

“I’d certainly like to see you try.”

 

*

 

“I knew there was a reason we hired you,” Cobb muttered, nodding. The Medina was buzzing with life, but of course they could still hear each other. Eames had to admit that he had done miracles based on Arthur’s research and all the other intel they had been able to dig up on Karim. The mannerisms were quite similar to the mark’s, but Karim had been a little more dangerous and a bit more foolhardy, probably the things that had ended up getting him killed in the first place.

 

“I appreciate it,” Eames replied with Karim’s voice and the strange accent. Then again, he had a lot to lose if this job went south – more rumours about his incompetence would surface even without Arthur’s help, and the Cobbs & Arthur would never hire him again.

 

Arthur, reading a newspaper while trailing behind them, didn’t comment on his performance, but Arthur was the dreamer. Maybe Eames could gauge his reaction based on the projections? No, they weren’t paying him any attention either. Perhaps that was a good thing. Besides, it wasn’t like Karim cared. It wasn’t like _Eames_ cared.

 

*

 

Eames actually learned three important things while he was in Tunisia. None of them had to do with dreamshare, and all of them had to do with Arthur.

 

The first thing surfaced when he was with Arthur, of course, in the Medina. They were doing research, at least on paper, but he was convinced Arthur was more interested in the architecture (apparently it was an UNESCO World Heritage Site and Arthur was one of those people), while he was more interested in Arthur.

 

It was thanks to a café with the menu in Arabian and French that Eames learned important thing number one: Arthur was fatally fluent in French, with the beautiful r that Mal used but without the heavy accent when he spoke English. He ordered them coffees and himself a sweet couscous of some sort, chatted casually with the person serving them and seemed all too happy while doing it. _In French_.

 

To paraphrase: Arthur was fluent in French in ways that made Eames want to bed him even more furiously than before.

 

When Eames got the chance to ask him about it (this was when Arthur had received his special order coffee and was still waiting for the _farka_ ), Arthur shrugged modestly. “I lived in Paris with Dom for a while.” The way he said it, it felt unclear whether he lived with Cobb or _with_ him, but Eames wasn’t masochistic enough to ask. “Before all of this,” he elaborated, “Before Dom met Mal and dreamshare happened.” Eames didn’t know what possessed Arthur to do it, but he looked around and then casually continued, “We actually buried my birth identity in _Père Lachaise_ a few years back, Mal thought it would be a nice touch. There’s a waiting list, you know.”

 

The second thing Eames learned was that Arthur had buried his birth identity in Paris, and that they had attended the small funeral and listened to Arthur’s relatives talk about what a _proper man_ Arthur had been, before he met Dominick Cobb and everything went sideways. Mal had laughed in her very French way and they had all drank too much alcohol.

 

It sounded so strange. He had believed Arthur was – no, scratch that, Arthur _had been_ all too good for things like this, too honest and kind to attend his own funeral and then proceed to get wasted. He had known a different man, years ago, and he didn’t know how he felt about that.

 

Furthermore, he didn’t know he how felt about Arthur, anymore.

 

The third thing was the most important.

 

*

 

They did indeed have sex, in Sousse. Counter-effectively, it was the single most frightful thing he came to face during the whole job, including the time when Arthur shot him out of the dream with four bullets to non-vitals organs and he learned not to anger the point man. (On his defence, Arthur definitely had issues.)

 

It started with Eames bringing coffee to Arthur’s desk, another effort to get to his good side and maybe apologise for the four bullets incident. Arthur looked up at him, voice raspy and eyes incarnadine, and it made Eames feel like something dragged straight out of Groundhog Day.

 

“What do you want this time?” Arthur asked him, apparently feeling the same familiarity. This time Eames had at least remembered his coffee order and somehow spluttered it about right at the café they had visited earlier, despite his non-existent French. If he had got a few questioning looks and a laugh, he didn’t really care.

 

“Everything you have to offer,” Eames murmured close to Arthur’s ear pleasantly, trying to draw his eyes away from the screen, if only to get them a few seconds of much-needed rest. Arthur would go blind soon, and for a man with such a deadly aim, it would truly be a shame. “Are you not impressed with my personal growth, darling?”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes, which Eames wanted to mean _I seem to fall in love with you all over again each day_. “Maybe one day, Mr. Eames.” He looked so tired, Eames didn’t really know what he could say to make things a bit easier for him. Contrary to popular belief, he _cared_. No, wait. He didn’t, really.

 

“Maybe you’d like to accompany me to my hotel room today?” he offered casually. It was far from his best line, but something about Arthur rendered him incapable of executing his full charm, this time like every other.

 

The thing was, Arthur seemed to actually consider the offer. He looked up from his laptop, blinking unseeingly for a few beats before his eyes adjusted again. “I suppose I could,” he muttered, so quietly that Eames didn’t actually catch it at first, “ _If_ you’ll never mention it to anyone, especially Mal or Dom.” He looked at Eames, actually looked into his eyes like he was saying _can you do that?_ The way he talked about it, it was like it was a business transaction; your pleasure for my secrets. Why not just do it in the office, if that was how he wanted to handle it?      

 

Then again, this was a good deal, Eames supposed. He would get the sex he had wanted and win the mental bet. Maybe it would even make them close enough to score him the repeated arrangement he had already wanted all that time ago, when he had still believed that Arthur was a woman and all that. Oh, and Arthur would get to rest his eyes.

 

“I suppose I’ll lead the way, then.”

 

He rubbed his totem, the poker chip in his pocket, even though he could remember how he got here and even though only Arthur was looking at him.

 

Just in case.

 

The frightening part wasn’t even Arthur’s mechanic agreement or the way he proceeded to undress himself without much emotion whatsoever – though these would have both been rather frightening if not completely overshadowed by the real thing…

 

…the way Arthur stayed afterwards, draped over himself and his body quite close to Eames’, like he wanted to be there and had no responsibilities waiting for him just outside the door. Eames had previously toyed with the idea of bringing up work, but he didn’t exactly wish for Arthur to leave in the middle of an otherwise good fuck.

 

Arthur sighed lightly, dropping his chin on Eames’ chest so suddenly that the action was nearly daunting on its own. “Am I to leave now?” he asked plainly, like he hadn’t done this before (from how he had moved just now, he definitely had done it all).

 

Eames drew lazy circles on his back, anything to keep himself from trying the feel of Arthur’s sex-messed hair, resolutely sticking in every direction. “You don’t need to,” he tried, though he had a feeling it wouldn’t work. It was only seven PM, after all, and Arthur never seemed to leave the warehouse before he stopped functioning completely. His first assessment had been all too correct; Arthur was indeed obsessed with proper research (or afraid to death of being a failure in his co-workers’ eyes; the endgame was still the same).

 

“I think I do,” Arthur countered, though he made no move to get up just yet. It was somehow so horrible that Eames almost found himself wishing he had never suggested that Arthur should join him, but on the other hand it had been all too good to be made undone. On top of this, Arthur was somewhat comforting right now, so real on his side in a world where the real was no longer real enough. He preferred to keep the good memories to himself, so maybe he could handle some degree of maladroitness.

 

“Right,” he agreed lazily, trailing his hand up Arthur’s neck and getting a shiver from him. It would’ve been nice to have the chance to get to know his body completely, to recognise all of his tender spots and find each small scar and imperfection, but it didn’t seem possible right now, not when Arthur was impassionate and unfeeling.

 

Arthur chuckled at a private joke Eames would never learn, drawing himself up somewhat ungracefully. Then again, Eames couldn’t really blame him for being a bit unbalanced, after sex that good. He watched Arthur get dressed, slowly, tenderly. Bruises disappeared under trouser legs and bite marks under collars, and Eames would have suddenly given almost anything to have Mal and/or Cobb see them, no matter how illogical it was. He wanted them to know about this, wanted to defy Arthur’s only condition for seemingly no reason whatsoever. He was irrational, truly.

 

“You got what you wanted,” Arthur muttered quietly as he left the room, not offering anything else as a greeting or giving Eames the chance to respond.

 

Eames felt cold, which was absurd in the light of the fact that the temperature here was much higher than he had ever encountered before.

 

Arthur was right, though: he had got what he had wanted, with added interest too. He wasn’t really allowed to want anything but a fantastic fuck when it came to Arthur, was he?

 

Eames had learned that Arthur was amazing in bed and fascinating afterwards. He didn’t know what to do with this information.

 

*

 

The morning after, his _fantastic_ _fuck_ seemed even crankier than usual, if possible. Arthur hadn’t woken up on the wrong foot, but on a wrong continent with both of his feet apparently mismatched with his body. Before midday (when Eames finally dragged himself in; it wasn’t like they really needed him there right now anyway), he had apparently already fought with Cobb over the layout of the second level, if the latter’s unhappy frowning and mindless complaints were anything to go by.

 

When Eames went to try and talk to him, completely professional, Arthur just sighed and redirected him to Cobb with something along the lines of _too busy to deal with you right now_.

 

“What’s got him so…” Eames started to ask Cobb, not finding the exact term he wanted, “…impossible today?”

 

“Hell if I know,” Cobb scoffed, “But I think he spent the night here, so it might be the reason or the symptom.” He nodded in Arthur’s direction, as if wanting to have Eames do his own assessment. It was hard to tell from the (safe) distance if Arthur’s eyes were coloured with darker shades than usual, but his suit did have more creases than Arthur preferred. It was difficult to imagine having so much money you would rather sleep in your overly expensive suit than drag yourself to the next block and the most expensive suite they have to offer. That was how Eames imagined Arthur’s life, anyway. “Also, we’ll have to start over with the research. The mark is militarized.”

 

Eames hummed in response; all that effort gone to waste would have pushed him off the edge too. He could actually see it in his mind; going over to Arthur and offering to massage his back, having Arthur groan in a way that wasn’t completely sexual and maybe having some additional atonement for any upcoming headache he was bound to cause Arthur. He might even offer to warm Arthur’s bed while he was at it and convince him to get a nap or something. He liked to imagine he had what it would take to make things better again.

 

He didn’t do any of that, though. He told himself it was because of Cobb’s looming presence, but that wasn’t actually the problem. He had never before felt awkward after a one-night stand, but now he wished he didn’t even know Arthur, with all of his strange charm. It might make things easier, somehow.

 

*

 

He supposed that since he had previously managed his jobs with just superficial wounds, everything was bound to go wrong at one point.

 

It was statistics and Arthur would have approved of it, if Arthur weren’t currently plugged into three different machines and breathing artificially.

 

“I never wrote the story,” he muttered quietly to the comforter in the hospital room, not even trying to meet Arthur’s closed eyes, “I was hoping you could appreciate the fact, but I suppose I’ll just have to tell you again after you’ve woken up.”

 

 Cobb entered the room quietly, at least compared to how loud he had been while extracting information from the nurses. “He’s not in a critical condition anymore; it’s a barb coma.”

 

Eames nodded. He had actually punched Cobb earlier, when the extractor had suggested that it was Arthur’s fault that he had been shot out of the dream and then shot again in reality. Eames certainly wouldn’t have wanted to take on three assassins working for the firm, and apparently it had been Cobb who had double-crossed them before. He didn’t know the details, just that Arthur had killed two, kicked Cobb out of the dream and then took two shots from the last one. When Eames got the kick, Mal was already gushing over Arthur’s wounds while Cobb yelled at the phone.

 

“Think it’ll leave lasting damage?”

 

Cobb shrugged and opened his mouth; in the end he said nothing.

 

*

 

Eames spent five days at the hospital. It wasn’t much but it was all that was needed, since Arthur started regaining his consciousness after day four.

 

“Fancy seeing you here,” were his first words, very raspy but amused regardless. He was in as awful shape as could be expected, and Eames handed him some water before he had the chance to ask.

 

“I can’t decide if you were brave or stupid,” Eames told him, “But at least you’re alive.” He wasn’t going to get sentimental and coddle over Arthur; Cobb and Mal would be sure to take care of that part later. Right now he just needed to know that Arthur was all right and had kept at least 80% of his previous brain capacity. He’d be better than most men at fifty, but Eames had never been known for his selflessness.

 

“Did you finish the job?” This was definitely Arthur the point man; he could well be on his deathbed but right now he wanted to know if they had finished the job.

 

“Of course. You did great.” He ruffled Arthur’s hair before it occurred to him that this was indeed _Arthur_ , who might not actually appreciate the notion.

 

“I didn’t.” He sighed and shook his head, immediately swaying and anyone could have told him it had been a bad idea. “I think I’m going to sleep. Or pass out, maybe…” Towards the end, he started slowing down and slurring, like a laptop entering stand-by mode. At that point, though, Arthur was usually jabbing the keys viciously to resurrect it.

 

“Go ahead; I’ll tell Cobb and Mal you woke up.”

 

*                                                                              

 

“Arthur is a dangerous man,” Mal told him once, when they were under. Maybe it was actually Mal who told him first, frowning at the mahogany surface of the office desk. Arthur was elsewhere; it seemed like when Arthur was elsewhere, Eames’ thoughts were as well.

 

He looked at himself in the mirror, watched the man younger than him shake his head and open his eyes, less amused than Eames himself would be and more composed. He was all around dull and Eames had to pity him for that. “I don’t disagree.” He didn’t mention any of the _very frightening_ examples that immediately flooded his mind.

 

Mal suddenly toppled over the wall the mirror was attached to, sending it crashing and setting off a chain reaction of everything just sort of coming apart. “No, but you don’t understand, either. I don’t say this because I’m afraid he’ll hurt you, but vice versa.”

 

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that. I have nothing against Arthur.”

 

She shook her head, like he still couldn’t understand what she meant, but the dream was already collapsing.

 

*

 

Subject: I have a job.

From: arthur.smith@gmail.com

To: dreamon@hotmail.co.uk

Sent: 31st May 2014 1:36 AM

 

Moscow, in a week. Will send more info if interested.

-A

 

Subject: Re: I have a job.

From: dreamon@hotmail.co.uk

To: arthur.smith@gmail.com

Sent: 31st May 2013 10:11 AM

 

what makes u think i’m interested

additionally, is your last name really smith? i won’t even ask how you got my email

 

cheers

 

Subject: Re: I have a job.

From: arthur.smith@gmail.com

To: dreamon@hotmail.co.uk

Sent: 31st May 2013 10:19 AM

 

Cobb is somehow under the impression that you’re good at what you do. I don’t care who I work with, as long as I don’t get shot.

-A

 

Subject: Re: I have a job.

From: dreamon@hotmail.co.uk

To: arthur.smith@gmail.com

Sent: 31st May 2013 12:47 PM

 

you mustn’t flatter me so. send me the info.

speaking of getting shot, btw…

 

Subject: Re: I have a job.

From: arthur.smith@gmail.com

To: dreamon@hotmail.co.uk

Sent: 31st May 2013 12:50 PM

 

Your plane ticket is attached.

-A

 

 

Arthur was actually there to pick him up from _Московский аэропорт Домоде́дово_ , because there was a first time for everything, apparently. He wore a scowl and a suit, seeming out of place and belonging right where he was at the same time. More importantly, he was _alive._ Of course, Eames had heard this from Cobb already, but it wasn’t quite the same as seeing it for himself.

 

“Feeling well?”

 

He rolled his eyes, “Cobb and you both. I’m fine; getting shot didn’t suddenly turn me into a _fucking toddler_.”

 

“Good.” It didn’t necessarily carry the relief he felt, and it definitely didn’t get across the way he cared, but it was something.

 

They walked to the car in silence, and like always, the cold of the country surprised Eames.

 

“Do you know any Russian?” Eames asked Arthur while climbing into the smooth-lined car, overly satisfied that this time, he just might be fluent while Arthur wasn’t.

 

“The basics,” Arthur replied, staring ahead the whole time. “ _Стой, руки вверх_ , _дайте мне ваш пистолет_.” He had a very American accent, of course, flat and not really comprehending his own words, but at least it wasn’t straight from Hollywood.

 

Eames laughed lightly, wondering if Arthur realized how he sounded like he was making an actual joke, if Arthur knew how to joke in the first place. Eames also wondered if Arthur still hated him with a burning passion and if he would agree if Eames offered to share a night in his hotel room this time.

 

“You sound so American, darling, gun-first into everything.”

 

He imagined Arthur could be rolling his eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. “You’ll be happy to know it might be useful if our tail catches onto us.”

 

“Our tail? Really now?” Eames repeated, craning his head to look at the rear window. Sure enough, a black Mercedes was trailing behind them at a proper tailing distance. “You sure?” Arthur was one of the best in business, but definitely paranoid to a fault. His rigid posture seemed permanent and Eames liked to think he hadn’t taken a proper night off since Sousse.

 

“I’ve taken four lefts in a row. I didn’t pick you up just for your convenience, you know.”

 

“Oh.” There was really nothing else to be said.

 

“I think I’ll have to shoot,” Arthur said, frowning. Eames would have commented that he could do it, but Arthur did indeed have a deadly aim, and it wasn’t like he felt the need to start shooting right now. Let Arthur feel like he can take over the world by himself, if that’s what he wanted.

 

“Please don’t crash the car with me in it.”

 

“Right,” Arthur agreed, fishing a gun – his trustworthy Glock 17 - from the glove compartment because _bloody Americans_. The safe clicked pleasantly, and it seemed to be loaded as well. Actually, of course it was; Arthur.

 

He rolled the window open and took a few shots at the car while turning. There were cries and people started to run quicker than you could yell _mafia_. One of the bullets hit the window shield of the Mercedes, but they didn’t stop.

 

“So far so good,” Eames told him, looking back at them, “At least they’ll know they did a shite job as a tail.”

 

“That’s not quite enough,” Arthur replied, taking another round of shots. The driver seemed to understand what was important to his own wellbeing and braked, and Arthur shot once more. This time, he hit the driver in the elbow and the car swerved pleasantly.

 

Arthur didn’t take the time to further inspect the damage, instead stepping on the gas.

 

“That was good,” Eames acknowledged, getting no response. Fair enough, he reasoned, since they were still not exactly in the clear.

 

They left the car a few miles away from their current hideout and walked, Arthur clearly in lifted spirits after a good job well done.

 

“We should check the evening news later,” he beamed.

 

“You’re a dangerous man.”

 

“Aren’t we all?”

 

 

“We’re here,” Arthur almost chirped happily while throwing open the door, smiling to Cobb in a way that made him look younger than Eames had ever known him. He would do anything to have Arthur dimple at him like that, one more time.

 

Cobb raised an eyebrow, leaning back. “You seem happy.”

 

Arthur shrugged, “The mark’s goons were tailing us.”

 

 _Only Arthur_ , Eames thought to himself as Cobb started scolding Arthur like the worried father he was. Maybe Eames would let himself love Arthur again, but only if he could make Arthur smile like that. If he could take Arthur back to Seattle and start over, he’d take Arthur to coffee but this time, he’d offer to pay and ask Arthur to go home with him. Arthur would decline because he wasn’t that person, but Eames would have all the time in the world to convince Arthur that he was serious and not just looking for an easy lay or a good fuck. He’d show Arthur what he had never known: that he mattered.

 

 

*

 

Eames saw Arthur use his totem only three times. The first time was in Tanzania, one of those jobs he wouldn’t have taken if it weren’t for Arthur being there. It was quite dreadful, with a forge of a 30-year old man that could have been anyone, anywhere and a mark that couldn’t have figured them out even if they printed all of Arthur’s detailed research for her.

 

When Eames entered the makeshift warehouse, Arthur was typing and only spared him a sideways glance. “What is it, Mr. Eames?” It was Mr. Eames because it was during the time Arthur was furiously professional and pretended that he couldn’t stand Eames. It was quite charming, really.

 

“It’s a loaded die, darling,” he explained slowly, like he might to a child, “A souvenir from my trip to Vegas, one might say, since I’ve noticed that you don’t have a totem. Please, do at least attempt to appreciate the effort.”

 

Arthur looked at him sceptically, “So that only you could construct a dream in which I wouldn’t know that I’m dreaming? I think I’ll pass.”

 

“Oh darling, you wound me so,” he responded with an eye-roll, “Look, it’s yours now. You can tweak it a bit or whatever pleases you.”

 

“I don’t have time to be making myself a totem when I don’t need one,” he scoffed, like Eames had somehow insulted his intelligence by supposing he worked like other men in the business. Of course, he should have treated Arthur like something far and beyond the real world.

 

“Suit yourself,” Eames muttered, shrugging and leaving Arthur to his own devices. He didn’t want to seem like he was slacking on the job to flirt with Arthur (because that was mostly true but he couldn’t afford to admit it).

 

He would see Arthur throwing it around later that same day, raising it and trying out its weight, carefully manoeuvring sand paper on one of the sides. He didn’t mention it to Arthur, of course – this one time he could let it slide and just take a bit of pride privately in the fact that Arthur had apparently accepted his gift.

 

*

 

“Smoking will kill you,” Arthur observed. There was something very distressed in his eyes, but it was a new emotion on him and Eames couldn’t really pinpoint why.

 

He flicked the cigarette in place of a shrug. “Everything here will kill us, I’m just indulging in the simple pleasures of life while I can.” He hoped Arthur would hear what he didn’t say.

 

“You don’t need to quicken the process.”

 

“High and mighty, Arthur; always better than the rest of us peasants.”

 

“I quit a few months ago,” he admitted it while looking through the window, at the interior of the warehouse.

 

“Oh?” Eames hadn’t even known Arthur had smoked, since he seemed too rigid for basic human needs like hunger, sex or sleep. What did he do to have fun? Research, probably. Research wasn’t fun. “Then you can’t really scold me for it, can you now?”

 

“Of course I can,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “I care about… the wellbeing of our team.” It sounded like a lie for so many reasons, but Eames wasn’t going to call him out on it. Instead, he would appreciate the sentiment, appreciate _Arthur_.

 

He smiled. “What do you say you indulge in some human activities instead? I have a room in the Savoy.”

 

*

 

His room in the Savoy Hotel wasn’t really a room, but rather a suite fit for an emperor. The garments on the bed had been finest silks and wool from the whole of Arab Emirates. Now, though, they were scattered in different directions, not unlike their clothes. Eames had been such in a hurry to get Arthur out of his suit that he might never find where the pieces had landed. It was a fine suit, but a price he was ready to pay.

 

“You stayed at the hospital when I got shot,” Arthur observed. Eames could tell he had been thinking about this for days, from the way he said the words quickly, as if afraid he’d want to take them back. “You shouldn’t have.” Eames wasn’t sure if it was a _thank you but you shouldn’t have_ or a _you really fucking shouldn’t have, what part of zero contact do you not understand_ , but he didn’t care enough to ask.

 

“I wanted to know you were alive and kept most of your higher brain functions,” he said, “That’s hardly a crime.”

 

“I wasn’t wrong about you,” Arthur said, his voice rising like it was a question, “I know I wasn’t; you only wanted the story. You got it and you’re _still_ here, five years later. What the fuck.”

 

Eames shrugged, “It’s a passion, darling. When you’ve experienced it once…” He didn’t exactly know what he was referring to, so how could Arthur?

 

“Right,” Arthur agreed sceptically, not really agreeing. He sighed and settled his chin back on Eames’ chest. Eames had found the two bullet wounds from Sousse earlier; one on his chest and the other very _Fight Club_ –esque, so to say. They were both equally gruesome, but at least Arthur seemed to have kept his wits about him. He seemed annoyed when Eames examined them; batting his curious hands away with a frown. Maybe embarrassed, too – but being shot and living to tell the tale was remarkable, wasn’t it?

 

“You could stay,” Eames murmured brokenly, drawing circles on Arthur’s back. It was so much more than what he had ever said to Arthur before; it wasn’t _you don’t have to go_ , but rather _I want you to stay_. Maybe he wanted it forever, maybe he could live if he had it only until Arthur started regretting the whole ordeal, but in that moment, he wanted Arthur to stay. They worked together brilliantly, like Arthur and Cobb but less proper, more passionate. Arthur was smart; he had to realise this much. They could be perfect together.

 

Arthur chuckled, stretching himself to a mostly vertical position and fishing the small red die from the pocket of his trousers. (What a pity that he had known where they were all along.) One could see through it, just a bit, and he held it between his fingers, contemplating. “I think you might be saying more than you mean, Eames.” The white little dots on the six had been scratched away awfully meticulously.

 

“Oh, quite the contrary, I believe,” he disagreed. It was a nice thought, to consider how Arthur carried the die around, really made it into a totem. “Perhaps I mean more than I can say, darling.” There was a pause, and the _darling_ had much more emphasis than normally. It wasn’t just an endearment, now.

 

“I’d like to see that day,” Arthur said with half of a smile and a third of a laugh, standing up and rolling his head from side to side and then back again. He stretched more properly and was just prepared to leave, Eames was pretty sure, when his arm shot and tugged at Arthur’s without any conscious thought beyond _you can’t leave_.

 

Arthur fell back in the most uncoordinated crash Eames had ever witnessed from him, yelping and summoning a creak from the protesting bed.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Arthur breathed in the aftermath of his own fright, trying and failing to get back on his feet or at least back on his stomach. He reminded Eames of a turtle in a very charmingly stupid way.

 

“I don’t know,” he confessed, sighing into Arthur’s hair. It was such a wonderful mess after sex, and it reminded him of the happier, starry-eyed Arthur he had once known. “But I meant it when I said you could stay.”

 

Arthur carefully manoeuvred himself to Eames’ side and sighed. “And I meant it when I said you don’t mean it. You just love the sex, but I have a life outside of your hotel room.”

 

“I know,” Eames agreed, trying to be civilised where Arthur wasn’t, “I do as well, darling. I just… do you not think it’s…” He didn’t necessarily want to call what they had _something special_ , because he wouldn’t want Arthur to get the wrong idea.

 

Arthur sighed, “I’m leaving for the States tomorrow morning. I’ll probably see you on some job or another, but… I think it would be better if we stopped doing this.”

 

“I—“

 

“Let’s just be professional from now on,” Arthur said, not really giving him room to argue. Eames thought he could see certain sadness on his face as he finally left, but it was fleeting and then gone, not to mention that it could in fact just be Eames projecting on him.

 

There wasn’t an Arthur-sized emptiness in his unreal reality; it was just a spot he had used Arthur to fill. The thought didn’t help him sleep that night, but it was what he had.

 

*

 

He didn’t try to contact Arthur.

 

Unless unanswered emails count as contacting someone, of course. He didn’t count them because in his mind, they were not actual attempts – if he wanted to find Arthur, or actually talk to him, he’d call Cobb – but rather a lone cure for his own boredom.

 

He heard things, of course; Arthur and Cobb were still legends in their own right. Apparently Cobb had gone completely fucking mental and killed Mal – some believed it, some didn’t – and retriever-loyal Arthur had followed him underground, leaving a more or less elaborate breadcrumb trail on three different continents. That was when Eames wanted to contact Arthur the most – he had seen for himself, after all, how close Mal and Arthur had been. He could offer some kind of companionship.

 

In the end, he reasoned that it wasn’t his problem, it really wasn’t. Not before Cobb showed up in Mombasa, at least, asking him about inception. Eames had tried and failed it – it seemed like Cobb was always there to dig up all of his failures – but he still agreed to do the job. Cobb had come all that way, after all, knowing it was both his and Arthur’s lives on the line with Cobol. Besides, he hadn’t seen Arthur after he left the Savoy hotel.

 

The Fischer job would be legendary, truly. People would whisper about it for years, probably for as long as dreamshare existed. To Eames, the things that mattered the most were that they lived to see another day even after Cobb tried to throw them all into limbo, and that he managed to salvage some of the relationship he had once had with Arthur. During the job, he mocked Arthur relentlessly, continued to press all his buttons, and Arthur always allowed him to, even encouraged him from time to time.

 

He was completely smitten with Arthur, and that much was obvious. Even Yusuf had once commented on how fascinating his commitment was, but that wasn’t the whole thing.

 

When he had first met Arthur, the point man had been a paradox to Eames. Now, though, he could see how all those contradictions could exist in the same person, and it was still awfully fascinating in its own right. Even that was not quite enough for a man like Eames – a free man, one with everything to gain – to come every time Cobb called him about a job. Arthur had said that he had a life of his own, and so did Eames. He didn’t need to bind himself to Arthur like he had out of pure curiosity.

 

And he hadn’t – it was more than that with Arthur. He was gorgeous and a great fuck, but he was also sharp and witty and competent. The Fischer job had been yet another reminder of this, especially when they had gone to the third level and left Arthur in the hotel. It was just another testament to Arthur’s skills and how much they trusted him, but it also made Eames wonder, not for the first time, if he’d be seeing Arthur for the last time.

 

At Los Angeles International Airport, he even smiled at Cobb. He remembered the zero-contact rule well, but it was still a tempting idea to go talk to Arthur before they parted ways again, perhaps for good.

 

Life was too short for regret, after all – unless you fell into limbo. And he hadn’t, so he couldn’t make regrets, he reasoned.

 

“I lost my luggage once,” he murmured to himself, but smiled at Arthur, “Has that ever happened to you? It was hard lines, let me tell you.”

 

“Luckily, I’ve never had to experience it,” Arthur replied, but he was grinning back. It might have been the elation of how they had handled the job, but it was directed at Eames so he didn’t question it. “I hope that won’t happen this time, Mister…?”

 

“Eames, pleasure to meet you.” The two shook hands, and Eames could feel Cobb’s eyes on the back of his neck.

 

“You may call me Ms. Arthur,” he replied, with an eye-roll and an actual joke. Maybe it wasn’t actually Arthur, but a projection of some sort? Or had Arthur grown a sense of humour somewhere along the line?

 

“Listen, this might be a bit sudden, but could I maybe interest you in a cup of coffee? I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

 

“Is that so?” Arthur asked, smile faltering slightly. What a dreadful thing it was for Eames to witness, but at least he had agreed.

 

After they got their luggage, Eames led him to the nearest café – it was a Starbucks, so it was sure to satisfy Arthur’s secret need for fancy hipster coffee – and motioned for him to sit down while he went to queue. He had this theory that Arthur was too proper to leave while someone braved the awfully long lines and the horribly annoying teenage girls for their sake, and it seemed to work. Arthur sat there, all of his anxious tells in place, rolling his die on the table a bit too pronouncedly.

 

When the barista took his order with a wide smile and a nod, something about her reminded him about Ariadne. He hoped she’d have a proper career far from Cobb’s messes, because she was still a bit starry-eyed and happy. Unlike some people.

 

“The thing is,” he muttered to Arthur after picking up his order, “Did you know I didn’t write that story?”

 

Arthur frowned at him, but accepted the mug. “I couldn’t find anything about it, but I couldn’t accept that as a certain answer. I did find out that you quit, though. Do you want a pat on the head for being a decent person? Is that the whole purpose of this conversation?  Because I have places to be.”

 

Eames shooed the whole idea away with his hand, leaning closer still. “I know better than to waste your valuable time like that, darling. But the thing is… well, I suppose it’s safe to say I’ve made my share of mistakes—“

 

“Ah, yes, Winterthur,” Arthur agreed with a smirk. He was fucking _stalling_.

 

“That wasn’t my—“

 

“You forged an _English professor_ and spelled the word _professor_ wrong,” Arthur shook his head, eyes glowing with mirth, “The extractor was incompetent, I’ll give you that, but you didn’t do such a… dashing job either.”

 

“As much as I enjoy you and Cobb bringing up my shortcomings time and again, I was actually going to say that I’ve done my share of mistakes when it comes to you.” He stopped to better analyze Arthur’s expressions, but the other didn’t betray any emotion.

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Maybe I could interest you in coming home with me?”

 

“I thought I made it quite clear I was only interested in a professional relationship with you,” Arthur said with a frown, sipping his scorching latte. Eames had to hold back a wince, anticipating the burn of it. He preferred to take his time with the good things in life, after all.

 

“You did,” Eames agreed, “Which is why I find it regrettable that _I_ didn’t make it quite as clear what kind of a relationship I would like to have with you.”

 

Arthur laughed, short and harsh, “Oh, I believe your intentions were quite unmistakable.” He then shook his head and continued, sighing, “Really, Eames, I’ll leave if that’s all you wanted to say to me. I have a connecting flight to Chicago.”

 

“You’ve never been to Mombasa, I reckon. It’s nice, they have another World Heritage Site there… you’d love it,” he muttered, shrugging in feigned indifference, “Furthermore, you could probably use a break after all this. When’s the last time you took a proper break?”

 

He shook his head again, “I’m not going to come to Mombasa just because you want me to, Eames. I’m sure you’re used to getting your way, but I’m not a fucking toy.”

 

“You most definitely aren’t, darling. And I don’t mean to impose, but I want to make sure you understand that I’m just… just _fucking in love with you_ , Arthur.” It came out without him wanting it to, so he backed it up with a more certain, “Fuck it all to hell.” He wasn’t good at this, because he had never even wanted to like anyone and now he was trying to proclaim some sort of feelings for one of the most dangerous men he had ever met. But he had already tried pretty much everything else, and the best he had got had been Arthur sighing on his chest after sex, looking miserable.

 

Arthur just stared at him, mug halted in a midway movement and with the whole deer in the headlights look going on. “Right,” he then agreed, setting the mug down lest he spill it over his suit, and Eames approved. “Sure.” He didn’t think Eames was right and he wasn’t sure, that was the only apparent thing.

 

“Do you suppose this is a joke?”

 

“Not a joke, but a forge. That’s what you do, I know that.” He sighed, “I’m going to ask you one more time; what do you want?”

 

“You.” It was everything he wanted, anymore – everything else he had already achieved or deemed unworthy. Everything else he could go do with his newfound riches. He stared into Arthur’s eyes, trying to convey something a forge couldn’t do for him, not this time.

 

“And if I say that’s never going to happen?” Arthur prompted, expression unreadable.

 

“Then that’s fine by me.” It wasn’t, but it would have to be. He could be a proper gentleman, if he wanted to be, but Arthur was smiling at him, a proper Arthurian smile he had seen in Seattle, the one that had never been meant for him before. Arthur also leaned over the table to press a kiss on his lips. It was quick and chaste, but Eames thought he could feel the intent behind it more clearly than ever before.

 

“I think I’ll take you up on your offer. Mombasa, was it?”

 

He shrugged, all of a sudden feeling uncertain about how to be proper about courting Arthur, even after all this time of wanting to. He was second-guessing, and it was awful of him. “Or Birmingham; I have a flat in Birmingham. Chicago works as well. They say Paris—“

 

Arthur cut him off with a laugh. “Don’t worry. Mombasa will be perfect.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Self-image](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4971010) by [beili](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beili/pseuds/beili)




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